With a sudden yank, Lottie nearly toppled over the mountainous snow, where her boots sank like anchors in turbulent waters.

Lottie's brows crinkled. "What's going on?"

"You can't."

But before she could make sense of the situation, your fingers constricted her wrist like the thick winter layers enveloping her body. The pressure threatened to cut off her circulation, leaving behind crimson imprints like warning signs of the lurking dangers awaiting her on her ill-equipped hunting expedition.

Or rather—

"Lottie, what's taking so long?"

To take her away from the calls of her believers.

With a swift turn of her head, Lottie's gaze landed on the source of the urgency, far off in the snowy landscape.

"I'll be right ther—"

"No, Lottie."

Her head swiveled back to your unshed tears glistening like glass. In that moment moment, she noticed the enduring signs of worry etched on your face—or really, the first time in weeks she had seen your features clearly.

After being hailed like the divinity, rituals and spirituality consumed her days, leaving her to faintly envision your face in the distance with the usual supportive smile.

But that was all an act it seems, for she witnessed your façade wisping away.

"You can't go," you implored. "How the hell are you going to hunt without a gun?"

"You're not a God, you're not what they think you are!"

Deep down, she knew you were right. This hunt was a test of skill versus luck. Nat wielded a gun, but what did she have?

Visions. Things that only intensified after weeks of no meds, a notion only you knew with her deteriorating state.

But the calls of her followers continued to ring in her ears.

In each passing moment, she stood still while turmoil welled within. She felt herself drifting further from the lover she adored, swallowed whole by the rising tide of "disciples" eager to claim her as their own.

Struggling to find her footing, Lottie wondered: should she fulfill the responsibilities of a deity, or to follow the path that led back to you?